The Invitation
by Aquarian Wolf
Summary: A cautionary tale for foolish mortals.  Haunted Mansion one shot.


A/N: The Haunted Mansion and all its characters are © The Walt Disney Company

The Invitation

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named David whose parents were very wicked. His mother and father were full of anger and confusion, and didn't know how to control it. So, as some adults are apt to do, they took it out on their son. However, he never complained or struck back, for he was gentle and afraid. Where they lived, it doesn't matter; you can substitute any city you'd like, should you wish.

At school, David felt he wasn't special or even necessary. He was not the smartest in his class, nor the best at sports. In fact, David was invisible to most. Had they bothered to see him, maybe they would have noticed the way his eyes were always down, how his voice was never above a whisper, or that purple bruises dotted his limbs. No students or teachers remember what color David's skin was or what religion he might have been. Had he spoken with a distinct accent from another place? Or a lisp brought on by fallen teeth? Some remember a "Daphne" instead of a "David," if they remember the child at all. Some are only vaguely aware of a seat in the back of the room that probably used to have someone sitting in it not too long ago. Maybe that was just a trick of the mind, though, a broken memory of a child from some other school or a different class.

Life wasn't always like this for David. Sometimes there were happy moments. Once or twice, he made friends. After he met their Mommies and Daddies, he usually wasn't allowed to come over to play anymore. That was when they would remind him, with a curled lip and a stiff index finger, that his family were "_those_ kind of people," and were not to be associated with.

But his parents weren't always "those kind of people." There had been picnics and camp-outs in the backyard, fishing at the pond, and laughter with slurped spaghetti. Once, they had all gone to an amusement park for a day and he'd gotten his face painted like a dinosaur. Those were the things he liked to think about, even when he was in pain and alone in a house full of screams.

One night, when the stars were out and the moon wasn't quite full, there was a Mistake. Sadly, this Mistake could not be undone, not with all of the tears of the mother and the begging of the father.

That is why I am here tonight, at the house with the yellow tape around it and the red and blue lights dancing across its surface. Past the men and women in blue I walk, and they pay me no mind. My destination is clear-beyond the kitchen, the living room, the pool of blood and the crumpled form on the carpet. I slip by people in suits with cameras and questions. Four feet behind them is a door, and this is where I need to be.

"David?" His room has pictures on the walls, drawn in crayon. Most are of the house, but with three smiling people in front of it with misshapen heads and uneven legs. Sidestepping a stuffed tyrannosaurus-rex, I go to his closet door and knock.

"Who—who is it?"

"My name is Master Gracey." I crouched down next to him so I could be at eye-level. "A friend."

"I've never seen you before, Mr. Gracey." Arms wrapped around his legs, knees to his chest, he peers at me. "Are my Mom and Dad still fighting?"

Only the sounds of sirens and mutters exist outside of our cramped space.

"No."

"Good. I hate when they fight."

He listens as people in clomping boots step into his bedroom, express some notes of pity, and then leave. Within a couple of minutes the house is empty, save for me and David. I don't want to leave just yet, though I know I should wrap this case up. The coachman is waiting.

"I had angry parents, too, David."

"Did they shout and hit a lot?"

"Oh, more than that." It's hard to hold back a chuckle. "One day…" I stopped. This story is too graphic, I think. Children shouldn't be exposed to this sort of thing. Why did I blurt that out?

His eyes are on me. "One day what?"

Oh what the hell. "My mother took an axe and…" I hold my arms high. "…she cleaved it right through Poppa's skull." I bring my hands down with a "Swish!"

Those big eyes grow wider. "Whoa."

Children are fascinated by the macabre. I think that's why I get along so well with them. It's why I insist on going out on these missions personally, instead of sending one of my friends. Besides, the master of the house should always be the one to greet guests. I was never fond of that "let the butler do it" nonsense. I prefer a hands-on approach. What's the fun otherwise?

I've procrastinated long enough. It's time for the most difficult task when working with children: Honesty. "David, my friend Leota told me you would be here, and that you would be all alone."

He looks at his wrist-watch. It has some big-eared cartoon rodent on it. The digital read out stopped twenty-three minutes ago. I hate how that happens. My blasted pocket watch has been useless for nearly a century.

"My parents should be home."

I gently put my hand on his. You can see through both. "They were taken away, and they won't be coming back for a long time."

He shivers. "No." He's up and out, through the doors and into the hall with the red-stained carpet and the white outline. His voice comes out in a haggard whisper. "That's me, isn't it Mr. Gracey?"

I materialize next to him. "Unfortunately." I hate this moment. I dread it every time. It never gets easier, never.

He turns and then drops back, falling into the shape. He even moves his arms and legs to be in the same positions as the tape. "It didn't hurt for very long. Did it hurt for you?"

"For a short time." I stretch out on the floor next to him and together we stare at the speckled ceiling. "My way was suicide, you see. Didn't tie the noose right and I wound up having to hang around for a while. You could say it was _knot_ my best moment."

"Ouch."

Through no conscious will of my own, my hand touches my throat. "In death, I think I found a purpose. All my life I had been selfish, but now I try to help people like you, souls with no place to go."

"Are you an angel, Mr. Gracey?" He sits up on his elbows and studies me. "You kind of glow a little."

"No," I laugh. "Oh dear, far from it." There is a brief look of panic on his round face. "However, I'm no devil, either. Merely, I come here with an invitation for you, David, an invitation to a place where you might be happier." In my jacket, I find an envelope and hand it to him.

He pauses only a second before ripping it open and reading it out loud, with minor pauses at some of the longer words. "'We request that you accept our invitation to a swinging wake in your honor at Gracey Manor. Should you accept, we would love to have your stay at our happy haunting grounds. Please bring your Death Certificate. We're just dying to meet you." Behind the notice was his Death Certificate, filled out in beautiful calligraphy by my dutiful, if sometimes moody assistant, Ms. April. Or was it Ms. December? I can't recall which.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to, David."

He gets up. "Will I make friends there?"

"I don't see how you possibly couldn't. My friend Leota has a daughter close to your age. I think you would like her."

He reads the papers again. Then he takes a long look at his home, where he had lived his whole short life; where he had seen sadness, anger, and yes, sometimes happiness. It's empty, and he knows it will be for a long, long time.

"I would like to go, Mr. Gracey."

I hold his hand as we walk out together. It's so much smaller than my own. In the driveway, a black carriage is waiting for us. The coachman smiles and tips his hat to the boy and an invisible horse whinnies.

"Do you see a lot of kids like me?" He searches the velvet cushions for a seat belt.

"Unfortunately." The horse plods on. Behind us, David's house becomes smaller and smaller.

Happy endings do not take magic and fairy godmothers, foolish mortals. They take kind words, compassion, and thoughtful action. Perhaps with this in mind, there will be less and less children like David. But it must start at those first warning signs… At that first odd flinch… that first averted gaze… that first strange bruise… that first outburst… or that first silence...

My home is a haven for all lost spirits; however, the realm of the living is where you belong until such time it's absolutely necessary I bring you _your _Death Certificate.

And I don't want that to be for a very, _very _long time…


End file.
